


Family

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Gen, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 09:39:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3846091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brief snapshots of Ori’s joy and terror over he and Bilbo adopting little Frodo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UnshoddenShipper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnshoddenShipper/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Children are too rare for dwarves to adopt outside of immediate family. So when Ori hears that Bilbo has a little cousin who needs a home, he is overjoyed! What he didn't count on is trying to navigate being a father figure, a mother figure, finding the kid's comfort zone with him, being a good and engaging husband, being kind of intimidating to the kid (him! Intimidating!), HOLIDAYS, discipline??!, and feelings of incredible vulnerability and protectiveness and utter love for the little guy. If he can just earn the title Uncle Ori, he would be the happiest dwarf alive. 1x Bonus: He and Bilbo still have a sex life 2x Bonus: things are pretty awkward between Ori and Frodo at first” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/11476.html?thread=23215828#t23215828).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

When Ori first hears that Bilbo has a young nephew in need of a home, he’s overjoyed. Dwarf children are rare, certainly too rare to adopt as other races do, and he never thought he’d get that privilege. But then Bilbo asks if little Frodo Baggins can come to live with them, and Ori’s through the roof. He says yes, of course, he can’t wait, and then the rest of the week is a blur of sheer giddiness and bubbly, excited talks. 

The next thing Ori knows, he’s at the dinner table between Dori and Nori, while Bilbo gets some private time to catch up with Gandalf, their old friend having brought the child on an eagle’s back. He’ll already be an adventurer from that experience, Ori thinks—still a _hobbit_ , but not so stiflingly proper as Bilbo used to be. 

His brothers are naturally encouraging. They both tell him he’ll be an excellent father, but their praise doesn’t make it far into Ori’s mind; he’s busy fawning over his own daydreams. He doesn’t know what the child will look like, but he pictures a miniature Bilbo, and that makes him grin foolishly. He _loves_ Bilbo, but he would have proposed a lot sooner if he knew it might bring him a child some day, despite neither of them being able to bear young. 

The dinner’s another blur. Soon they’re in the hallway, Dori walking him back to his quarters, because, “You keep acting like your head’s up in the clouds; I’m afraid you’ll walk right off a bridge!”

Ori chuckles and mumbles, “Sorry,” even though he can’t help it. Dori’s always been protective of him, but times like this he appreciates the constant company more than ever. Ori’s already been made to promise regular visits, though he and Bilbo have made it clear to all the old company that they want Frodo to have as many loving adults in his life as possible. Their child isn’t going to be sheltered the way most hobbits are. He’s going to see fourteen smiling faces on a regular basis, have all of Bilbo’s maps to see, and all of Ori’s books to read. Maybe someday, when he’s older, they’ll take him on an adventure, and it’ll be like old times and a family vacation all in one. 

It isn’t until he’s right outside his door that a sudden chip cracks through his blissful veneer. He turns to say goodbye to Dori—they’ve agreed not to overwhelm the poor thing with two many new faces at once—and it all becomes _real_. In just a few moments, he’ll be a _step father._

And he has no idea how to do that. He’s still young by Dwarven standards, and he’s always been closer to his brothers than his parents—what does he know of parenting? He’s just a scribe, married to a persnickety writer from an entirely different species. They’re different in many ways, though they’ve always worked well together. What if they don’t work well over this? What if they disagree on how to raise him, but then, how could they—Ori doesn’t at all know _how to raise a child_.

That should’ve occurred to him much, much sooner. But it didn’t. He was so caught up in surprise and pleasure that he didn’t think about how much _work_ it would be. This’ll be the biggest responsibility of his life. It’ll mean even more than their quest to Erebor did. This is all uncharted territory, and this time there’s no map and key and only one instead of thirteen companions to go through it with him. And they won’t even have a wizard. 

Maybe Dori sees it on his face. Clapping a hand on his shoulder, Dori gently promises, “It’ll be okay. You’ll be a wonderful father. I know you will.”

“But I won’t _really_ ,” Ori squeaks, voice strained, because that’s also true; he’ll just be the man married to Frodo’s uncle. 

“You will be, in time,” Dori says, so sincere and sure that it helps put Ori’s mind at easy. Dori has a way of doing that. But Dori can’t hold his hand forever, and that thought’s become mildly... terrifying. 

Dori gives him a tight hug. It steadies him but doesn’t fix any of the problems. Then Dori leaves, and Ori’s left fidgeting on the spot, sucking in a breath. He tells himself he’s braver than this—he survived a dragon, he can survive anything. This’ll be much easier. He’s fairly certain hobbit children aren’t born with scales and horns, but then, he never really asked before, so he can’t know for sure. 

He opens the door anyway. He’s had an easier time rushing into battles, weaponless or no, but he goes, nonetheless. He’s still _happy_.

He shuts the door behind himself and steps into their sitting room, with a rug on the stone floor, a few old couches, drawers and shelves and a dozen of Bilbo’s knickknacks, and a door that opens into a hallway for the kitchen, bedrooms, and washroom. 

He doesn’t have to explore any of that to find Frodo. There’s a small child sitting in the middle of the rug, several painted wooden blocks at his feet—toys from Bofur’s shop. In little britches and suspenders and a white shirt, the child looks very much like a miniature hobbit, a miniature _Bilbo_ , accept that his curly hair is a much darker brown, and when he looks up at Ori with wide eyes, they’re bright blue.

He’s absolutely _adorable_. There’s a moment where Ori’s heart almost stops. He’s always liked children, but this one is almost too cute to bear. He stares up at Ori with his soft young face, his little mouth open, all shock, his arms frozen in mid-play. 

When that first moment’s passed, Ori’s still speechless, and Frodo’s still frozen. Awkwardness ebbs into the delight, and then Ori’s frantic mind wonders what he’s supposed to do next—should he thrust out his hand to shake? Frodo’s tiny fingers don’t look big enough to wrap around Ori’s fat thumb. 

He mumbles, tongue thick and dry, “Um, you must be Frodo. I’m Ori.” Grinning in what he hopes is a friendly and not pathetically lost way, Ori settles on, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Frodo doesn’t say anything. He just _stares_ , until Bilbo calls from down the hall, “Ori? Is that you?” Before Ori’s even gotten an answer out of his mouth, Bilbo shows up through the doorway, patting off doughy hands on his apron. He comes right across the room to kiss Ori’s nose like he usually does when Ori gets home.

Then he turns to Frodo, announcing, “I see you’ve met my nephew.” Ori smiles back, nodding, and Bilbo tells their guest, “Frodo, this is Ori, my husband.”

Frodo finally closes his mouth. He bites his bottom lip, shoulders hunching together, hands falling to put his toys down. Looking up at them through thick lashes, Frodo quietly says, “Hi.” His voice is feather soft. 

Ori answers, “Hi,” and then, completely lost, “I hope we can be friends.”

Frodo blinks his big round eyes but doesn’t say anymore.

Bilbo saves them by interjecting, “Frodo, are you hungry?” Frodo nods, and Bilbo gestures towards the hall. “Dinner’s on the table, if you like.”

Frodo immediately scrambles to his feet and runs off around the corner. He’s gone in a heartbeat, which is impressive, given how very small his legs are. Ori almost breathes a sigh of relief. His nerves have petrified him. 

Bilbo turns to him with a warm smile and says, “He’s shy. But he’s a good kid. It’ll work out.” How he sounds so positive, Ori has no idea. But Bilbo’s always been braver than most give him credit for. And his heart’s enormous, and he always knows what to say.

Ori finally mumbles, “He’s adorable.”

Bilbo laughs. The sound makes Ori’s heart flip, just as it always does. It reminds him that he’s not in this alone. 

Bilbo pecks him once on the lips, then takes his hand to bring him to the kitchen.

* * *

It takes a few days to pinpoint the way Frodo reacts to him, and when he does, it’s horrifying. Frodo’s mildly _afraid_ of him.

Afraid. Of little Ori. Aside from his prominent stomach, Ori’s the smallest of the dwarves from the original quest, and he’s smaller than almost all of the sturdy warriors who’ve joined them in Erebor from the Iron Hills. He doesn’t carry an array of hidden weapons like most of his friends—he’s a _scribe_ for goodness sakes. And he barely has a beard. He never wears armour, mostly just knit wear, some of which must at least look vaguely hobbit-y since Bilbo’s made so much of it. Still, Frodo hides behind Bilbo’s legs whenever he can, and he’s quiet around Ori unless directly spoken to. 

They don’t let anyone visit, though Thorin asks almost every day, and Nori makes jokes that they’ve made the whole thing up. “Give it some time,” Balin always tells his restless cousin, when he comes into the library to ask Ori how Erebor’s new child is doing. “This is a big step for him. Bilbo and Ori will let us know when he’s ready.”

Ori has no idea when that’ll be. He never wants to force himself on Frodo, and he’s glad that he’s the one to go out for work while Bilbo stays at home—Bilbo, at least, Frodo seems fully comfortable with. But he tries when he can. He sometimes sits with Frodo to play with toys, though it often lingers in an awkward silence, and he asks Frodo inane questions at mealtimes like, “How was your day?” 

And then, one evening when they’re alone, Bilbo having gone off to speak with Thorin, Frodo asks, “What’s that?”

Ori lowers his scroll in surprise. Frodo’s already arranged his toys into a neat pile, ready for bed. At this rate, Ori thinks he’ll have to tuck Frodo in alone. He brought a scroll to read in the living room to try and stall, hoping Frodo might squeeze in a little bit more playtime and Bilbo would show up again. Instead, Frodo stands up and wanders over to the couch on his little bare feet, peering at the parchment in Ori’s hands.

“It’s a story,” he explains. “One from the old stores. I’m helping Balin restore it.”

Eyes blinking curiously wide, Frodo asks, “What kind of story?”

Ori blanks. He glances down at the scroll, quickly running over it in his mind. It isn’t a particularly violent one, which is somewhat rare in old stories. It’s a morale test sort of tale, wherein a dwarf whom Ori always pictures as Bombur tricks a tree into giving her too many apples, and the apples become sickly as penance. 

It could be child-friendly. Sensing an opportunity, Ori asks, “I can read it to you, if you like?”

He expects Frodo to shrink away. But Frodo smiles like he’s never heard anything more marvelous. Perhaps a bit of adventuring can coax him out of his shell, just like his uncle Bilbo. Ori nods, and says for no particular reason, “My big brother, Dori, used to read me bedtime stories when I was little.”

“Does that mean I have to go to bed?” Frodo asks. When Ori nods again, Frodo wrinkles his nose. 

But he scampers off around the corner, and Ori gets up to follow, rolling up the scroll. He’s already catching the parts in his head he’ll have to omit—he never liked scary stories himself, and he can’t imagine Frodo will want to hear of the tree sending carpenter ants to eat away the dwarf’s precious beard. The last thing he needs is to give the poor thing nightmares. 

Frodo’s bedroom is a small, converted study space. They’ve put in a rug, a single bed, and a desk that Dwalin chopped down to miniature size for them. They’re fortunate to have quarters on the rim of the mountain, so, like in their bedroom, there’s a little square window that lets in the growing starlight. Ori takes a candle with him all the same. Frodo, changed into a beige nightgown, settles in below his sheets, and Ori smoothes out the blankets around him to tuck him. 

Placing the candle on the nightstand, Ori pulls a stool up to the edge of the bed, opens his scroll, and starts to read. He does his best to do it the way Dori used to—which means using different voices for the different characters, which makes him grateful he had a story with such a small cast. All the while, he watches Frodo’s face out the corner of his eye, which lights up in delight at the good parts, and slips into awe at the censored bad parts. His face is so _expressive_. He’s a very good listener and doesn’t interrupt. By the time Ori gets to the part about the apples as heavy as stones, Frodo interjects with a muffled yawn. 

Pausing, Ori lowers the scroll and smiles at his charge, who blushes sheepishly and asks, “Please keep going?”

He knows he probably shouldn’t. It’ll be no good if Frodo falls asleep, and the less he reads now, the longer he can draw this out to other nights. It’s the first time they’ve spent alone together that’s felt _natural_ , and Ori doesn’t want to give that up. 

But he can’t resist Frodo’s cute face, so he continues reading. 

Only a few sentences later, Frodo yawns again. Ori stops, and Frodo shifts, rolling onto his side and curling up. Before he can beg for more, Ori murmurs, “I think that’s enough for now, Frodo.” He can’t resist the urge to tug the blankets up just that little bit extra and pat Frodo’s arm. Frodo looks about to protest, but another yawn cuts him off. 

He’s too cute. It’s physically hard to roll up his script and leave, but Ori does so, takings his candle. He whispers, “Good night, Frodo.”

Frodo mumbles back, “G’night, Ori.” It makes his heart flutter. He’s doing it. They’re bonding. 

When he gets outside to gently close Frodo’s door, he finds Bilbo coming down the hall. Looking at it, Bilbo asks quietly, “How is he?”

“I tucked him in already. I read him a story,” Ori replies proudly, to Bilbo’s warm smile and a kiss on his cheek. 

“Good. Then you can come tuck me in.” Bilbo winks as he says it, brushing past Ori to wander over to their room. Ori follows immediately, closing their own door behind them just as quietly. Bilbo shrugs out of his coat to put up on the hanger, and then he’s got his arms around Ori’s waist, his toes lifting up just that little extra bit so their mouths can press together, warm and sweet. 

Shivering and _wanting_ , his interest immediately shifting from paternal to romantic and lustful, Ori tosses his scroll onto a nearby desk. He leans in, wanting another, but before they touch, he’s pulled back again to wonder aloud, “Oh, but... should we, with Frodo in the other room?”

Bilbo lifts his eyebrows in that _‘really?’_ expression he so often makes. “Ori, it’s already been a week since I’ve had any. Are you telling me you want to wait another thirty or so years?”

When he says it like that, of course it doesn’t make any sense. Ori compromises, “We’ll be quiet?” Bilbo nods. They’re both capable of hushed love making, although they’re also capable of roaring the roof down. They’ll have to save that for when they can leave Frodo with babysitters. 

Tonight, Ori takes his husband in his arms and maneuvers towards the bed.

* * *

Two weeks later, on no special day in particular other than one of Ori’s days off, he’s woken up by an earthquake. 

Several confused blinks later, he realizes that it’s only his mattress that’s shaking, and that’s only because tiny feet are jumping on it. Groggily come to beside him, Bilbo sits up in bed, rubbing at his eyes. Ori, unwilling to move just yet, only groans, “Frodo, what are you doing?”

“It’s Spring Harvest!” Frodo chips excitedly. Apparently, reading to him every night has crushed the barrier enough for the little tyke to feel comfortable destroying Ori’s morning. If he weren’t so incredibly cute, Ori would send him to his room. 

But he is incredibly cute, so Ori only tries to burrow deeper into his pillow, while Frodo giggles and lands between them. “It’s Spring Harvest,” Frodo repeats insistently. “Aren’t you excited?”

Ori sleepily blinks up at him. Ori has no idea what a Spring Harvest in. Then he pales, thinking it’s something dreadfully important to his husband—and stepson’s—culture, and he’s completely forgotten. 

To his relief, Bilbo yawns, “Oh, I forgot about that.”

“How could you forget?” Frodo asks, looking shocked.

“I’ve been around dwarves a long time, Frodo,” Bilbo sighs. “But it’s alright; I’ll go make the pancakes.”

Frodo lights up again, his day evidently saved. At Ori’s confused expression, Bilbo succinctly explains, “It’s a Hobbiton holiday. We’ll have a traditional breakfast, then go down to the market, alright?”

Having had no better plans, Ori nods. He was worried he’d be a disappointment, but evidently, Bilbo doesn’t expect anything of him. And that sounds like a fairly easy holiday. And Frodo looks happy at the prospect. 

As Bilbo shuffles out of bed and dons his robe atop his nightgown, he suggests, “Frodo, why don’t you explain the origins of Spring Harvest to Ori while I get cooking?”

Frodo nods. At first, when Bilbo leaves, he looks a little shy. He stumbles over the first few explanations, but Ori sits up and listens politely; he likes stories as much as Frodo does. And soon enough Frodo’s gotten into it and he’s gesturing here and there, describing bright blue skies, lush green grass, and great, enormous carrots.

* * *

The first time Frodo gets hurt, Ori nearly has a heart attack. He sees Frodo slipping off the side of Thorin’s throne, and he dives over, but not in time to catch the poor thing from landing on his side along the stone dais. For one horrible moment, there’s no sound at all in the great hall, and then Frodo _wails_ , curling up into a little ball and sobbing like a dragon’s taken his home. 

Ori scoops him up right away, cuddling him close and frantically making hushing, soothing noises, though none of them have any effect. As he rolls up Frodo’s little sleeves, checking his arms for bruises, he tells Thorin, “Send for Óin, quickly!” In his panic, he completely forgets that Thorin’s his king and he has no right to be giving out orders. From the corner of his eye, he can see a guard running off, hopefully to fetch medical help immediately, though none of Ori’s checking reveals any broken skin.

“It’s alright,” Thorin chuckles, in a voice far too light given the situation. “The little tyke’s just rambunctious. You should’ve seen the trouble Fíli and Kíli got into at his age!”

Frodo isn’t at all like that. He’s curious, yes, and Bilbo says he’s not nearly as cautious as most hobbits, but he certainly is nowhere _near_ the trouble of Fíli and Kíli. When Thorin vacated the throne to let Frodo sit in it, Ori had only looked away for a second to speak with his king and friend, but obviously it was enough for Frodo to climb up onto the armrest and fall right off. 

Thorin means well. He kneels down next to their huddle and pats Frodo on the head, promising, “You’ll be okay, little burglar,” though Frodo doesn’t seem to believe it. Ori only hugs him closer, rubbing his back and rocking him gently back and forth. Perhaps a dwarf might’ve taken the spill better, but hobbits are much more fragile. And Ori’s fairly certain he would panic as much even if his child were an orc with indestructible skin. It’s only been a month, but Frodo is _his precious child_ , and if he could protect Frodo from all the pain in the world, he would. 

When Óin finally arrives, Bilbo’s with him. Ori has to relinquish his firm grip enough to let Óin ask Frodo where it hurts, and over them Bilbo asks, “What happened?”

Sniffling, Frodo says before Ori can, “I fell off the chair.”

“Throne,” Thorin gruffly corrects from the background, but everyone ignores him. Bilbo frowns.

To Ori’s surprise, Bilbo says, “You shouldn’t be climbing on big stone things, Frodo. With this platform raised as it is, you could’ve been hurt much worse! I’m afraid I’m going to have to take your toys away for a few days as punishment.” 

Frodo’s little face falls. Then he starts to quietly sob again, while Bilbo continues looking stern and Ori _stares_ at him. Ori’s always known that Bilbo’s had a strict side, and when pushed, that gentle veneer can become quite stern, but poor Frodo certainly doesn’t need to be _punished_ for getting hurt. Still, Ori knows enough not to argue in front of Frodo, so he keeps his disagreement to himself. For the most part, they’ve agreed on parenting, but at the end of the day, Ori has to concede that Bilbo’s his blood uncle and would know more of raising hobbits than him.

When Óin’s finished, he assures them that Frodo’s fine; the poor lad’s just had a rough shock. After Óin leaves, Frodo asks if that means it’s okay and he can keep his toys. Bilbo says in two days, and Ori and Thorin exchanges looks but don’t say anything. Perhaps early discipline is why hobbits are so uptight. 

But Frodo _is_ a hobbit. They walk back to their quarters with Frodo between them, his tiny arms crossed, looking angry for the first time ever.

Ori still reads him a bedtime story.

* * *

Two months since Frodo came into their lives, Ori and Bilbo decide they need some couple time again. They have plenty of it, but often cut short and always cautious, and they both long to be on the road. They tell Frodo that when he’s older, he’ll come with them, and they’ll be a family of brave adventures, traveling everywhere along Bilbo’s maps, and maybe even farther than that.

For now, they’re only leaving for a few days, just down to visit Dale. Several dwarves volunteered to babysit, but Balin is the most responsible, and Frodo already likes him. He even holds Balin’s hand in the living room while Ori and Bilbo fumble with their bags, packs as heavy as the first time they left Bag End. Bilbo looks excited, but Ori’s almost in tears. He can’t wait to sleep naked next to Bilbo again, but he also doesn’t want to leave Frodo, who’s brought so much joy into his life. When they finally have everything ready, he says, “We’ll be back soon,” for what might be the millionth time. 

They’re almost out the door when Frodo breaks free of Balin’s grip and runs for them. He latches suddenly around Bilbo’s middle, saying emphatically, “Goodbye, Uncle Bilbo.”

Smiling wide enough to reach his eyes, Bilbo says, “Goodbye, Frodo,” and pats his little head.

Ori’s grinning fondly at them when Frodo detaches, then, to Ori’s surprise, tackles Ori. He hugs Ori just as tightly as he did Bilbo, saying, “Goodbye, Uncle Ori.” Ori hugs him back and pecks his forehead. 

The tears tug at his eyes. They have to hurry out the door to hide it, and when they’re in Erebor’s vast corridor, Bilbo kisses his cheek. Ori thinks he might be the happiest dwarf alive. 

As they head off down the path, Bilbo suggests, “Maybe we should only be four days, instead of five.”

And Ori laughs, “I was thinking three.”


End file.
